3

As the sun sank behind a thick curtain of poplars, Château de Pray was coming to life. The clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen was rising to the rooms on the second floor. Frederic Brisset was busy presiding over the sous chefs and others preparing the evening meal.

After unpacking and lingering under scalding showers, Benjamin and Virgile joined the film crew waiting patiently in the lobby. Freshly shaved and smelling of cologne, the two men from Bordeaux had selected outfits in keeping with their personal preferences and the nature of the gathering.

“You don’t think we look like country bumpkins, boss?” Virgile asked, adjusting the collar of his fitted jacket. He had slipped it on over a light cashmere sweater, perfect for the unreliable spring weather.

Benjamin gave his assistant a once-over. The winemaker preferred more classic clothes for himself, but Virgile was no slouch when it came to attire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you fretting, Virgile?”

“I don’t know. I have the feeling we smell like hay.”

Benjamin chuckled. “We’re from Bordeaux, son. How could we possibly smell like hay? And even if we did, what would be so wrong with that? We’re also men of the vine. ‘In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.’”

“Is that a quote, boss?”

“Yes: Margaret Atwood.”

“It’s just that I’m not in the habit of hanging out with movers and shakers from Paris.”

“The crowd probably will be a bit… What’s the word? A bit show-biz.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m looking forward to this get-together. But I’m nervous, too.”

Benjamin patted his assistant’s shoulder. “Virgile, you’ve had the opportunity to meet some very influential and highly regarded people since coming to work for me. You’ll handle any celebrities we meet tonight. Just wear that smile of yours. I’ve seen how it wins people over. Promise me, though, that you won’t use it to charm any starlets. According to our director, we’ve got an early morning.”

Virgile grinned. “Okay, boss.”

They climbed into Benjamin’s Mercedes. Despite the nip in the air, they had taken the top down at Liza Stechelmann’s request. She wanted to film them in the golden light of the sunset. The film truck was a few meters behind, with Fabrice leaning perilously out the passenger-side door to capture the picturesque image of the two winemakers.

“Off to a good start,” Benjamin grumbled, chafing at the unwanted attention this was bound to get them. That Liza had asked him to drive more slowly than he wanted only made it worse.

Highway 751 moseyed along the slumbering waters of the Loire River. After passing Montlouis, they crossed over the river and drove through the village of Vouvray, with its slate-topped roofs. They passed the Petit Côteau estate below Château Moncontour and continued on the winding road of the Vallée Coquette. The tufa houses were tinged orange under the last rays of the sun.

Without signaling, Benjamin turned into a pebble drive, where a wooden sign with italic lettering read “Château de Tremblay.” He waited for Liza and her assistants, knowing they’d be eager to capture the moment of arrival at David Navarre’s estate.

Sure enough, the cameraman was still hanging out the door as they made their way toward the château. “You’d think they’d be a little more discreet,” Benjamin muttered.

Virgile looked at his side mirror. “That guy Fabrice must have some phenomenal abs to be leaning out that way and still hanging onto his camera.”

Closer to the château, dozens of luxury cars were lined up in a small field. Two helicopters surrounded by uniformed guards were perched on a nearby landing pad.

Virgile let out a whistle. “Some estate, huh.”

“You can say that again. It explains some of David’s dubious career choices.”

The château stood on a solid foundation dating from the twelfth century. A Renaissance restyling hadn’t diminished the mansion’s robust beginnings. The corner towers still had their steep conical roofs, and carved corbels set off the mullioned windows with panels of pastel-colored stained glass.

A sizable vineyard maintained like an English garden surrounded the château. There was no trace of a pretentious lawn, stylized bushes, or flowerbeds. Here the vineyards reigned. Rows of vines stretched as far as the eye could see, floating on the horizon of the Vouvray plateau.

“It must cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place,” Virgile said.

“He’s accepted roles that are beneath him just to keep it going.”

“Now I understand why he makes so many movies. At his age, staying in leading-man shape can’t be easy.”

“No, it’s not. Before every film, he goes on a strict diet and quits drinking. He keeps up this regimen until he’s on set again. David Navarre’s a man who does nothing half way. Take all this.” Benjamin swept his arm across the vineyard. “He dived into the wine business with passion, and unlike some other people, he doesn’t pretend to know everything. He’s actually rather sharp, and with time, he’s become more discerning. For this estate alone, he’s committed enormous amounts of money to cellar renovations and new plantings. And what you see is just part of his holdings. He just bought acreage in Napa Valley, and he’s invested in Côtes de Blaye and Saint-Émilion. He also has properties in Saint-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil. And then, of course, there’s the parcel he wants us to look at.”

“He’s crazy to be spending every euro he makes on expanding his vines, when he doesn’t know how long he’ll land the big roles.”

“That’s exactly why I like him,” Benjamin said, smiling.

“Because he’s crazy?”

“No, Virgile, because he’s committed.” Benjamin climbed out of the convertible and smoothed his light-blue linen jacket.

“Please, try not to stand out,” he said to Liza, who had jumped from her van with both feet. “David gave me his permission over the phone, but I’m counting on you to follow us without…”

She stopped him. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll hardly notice us.”

The two technicians kept their distance as Benjamin and Virgile made their way to the courtyard. Torch lamps glowed in the twilight, and the walls seemed to sway gently in the light of the flames.

Benjamin picked up the humming of conversation inside the château, interspersed with peals of laughter. He took a breath and opened the door, pretending he didn’t have a four-person entourage on his heels.